


Run This Nothing Town

by DerRumtreiber



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: First Time, Hand Jobs, Language Barrier, M/M, Rare Pair, Washington Capitals, back alley, silly fluff, silly little one-shot, thank god for google translate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21923848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DerRumtreiber/pseuds/DerRumtreiber
Summary: Braden Holtby, of course, has none of the same reservations as his rookie backup and he just follows, crowding Ilya further into the wall, shaking his head and looking- lookingfond. He shoves the phone back in his pocket and raps his knuckles against Ilya’s head this time, much gentler.“Stupid,” he says, which makes Ilya’s brow furrow and his chin drop to his chest before Braden knocks it back up with that same hand, so they’re forced to look each other in the eyes.“You did good,” Braden says.
Relationships: Braden Holtby/Ilya Samsonov
Comments: 8
Kudos: 101





	Run This Nothing Town

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whimsicalmeerkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalmeerkat/gifts).

> Whimsicalmeerkat said there's not enough goalie/goalie fic out there, and she's right, so here we are I guess. 
> 
> I honestly have no idea how Holts and Samsonov act around each other because this hockey season has been a whole lot of finishing my degree and not nearly enough hockey watching or hockey news creeping, so apologies for any poor characterization.
> 
> Set after the 12/20/19 Caps @ Devils game, aka Ovi and Nicke's 900th beautiful game together.
> 
> Title stolen from Billie Eilish because I'm a cliche and that's what I was listening to while I hammered this out over like, two hours. Self-beta'd so feel free to point out any glaring mistakes; I'm sure there's a few.

A win – any way you can get it – is always good, great, cloud nine. And for Ilya, in his first season called up to the Caps, his first season in the NHL, his first season playing with Alexander-Fucking-Ovechkin - these wins are going to stick with him for the rest of his career. For the rest of his life, hopefully. He’s going to look back on them through dry spells, through tilting mind fucks that throw him off his game, through (_god forbid_) injuries and IR and physical therapy. He’s going to look back and remember this feeling, and he knows it will never stop feeling worth it.

He’s not psychic, or an optimist or anything. He’s a realist at heart, but he knows this like he knows his own name.

But tonight’s win. Well. For the first time since he was called up in October it feels a little bittersweet.

Sasha and Nicke’s 900th. A well-earned win, due in no small part to the team’s darlings, the dynamic duo, the glue that has held the Caps together through season after season of second round curse. The first ones to raise the cup over their heads.

To be out there on the ice with them in that moment of the final buzzer was an honor, and to have contributed to that win an even bigger honor. But it still feels like maybe it wasn’t his honor to take.

Holts had been as gracious about it as always, tapping Ilya’s helmet with his forehead and murmuring “Good game, rookie,” just like every other game Ilya’s played, win or not. But Ilya still feels – feels _weird_ about it. Unworthy.

He’s not used to feeling unworthy. He has worked _hard_ to get here.

But as they descend on a bar in celebration after, every time Ilya looks up, Braden is looking back, and it feels like there’s something there. Something different. It lights a little flicker of shame in his chest, where just two months ago he would have given anything for Holts’ attention.

He feels like maybe he should say something, but his English won’t cut it quite yet, and he’ll swallow a puck before he asks Zhenya to translate this. Whatever _this_ even is.

As the beer continues to flow and the shots continue to appear, Ilya starts to loosen up. He loses himself in the comfort of boisterous Russian. He loses track of Holts, too, until he looks up, laughing at a stupid joke Dima is failing to tell properly and Braden is there. Like, _right there_, right next to Ilya, looking just as loose and happy, even though there’s no way he understood what Dima’s slurring, aside from maybe the really dirty parts.

The true beauty of hockey is knowing how to say your father’s a farmer and your mother’s a sheep in four different languages, minimum.

The smile on Ilya’s face doesn’t fall, per se, but it must stick awkwardly because Braden’s own smile drops a little when Ilya can’t bring himself to look away.

Dima and Zhenya don’t notice anything odd at all, of course, because they aren’t goalies and also because they are both very, very drunk. They just yell happy things in Russian right in Holtby’s face, either forgetting he doesn’t speak it or just not caring. Some of the fire returns to Holtby’s grin as he pushes them away, big palm covering all of Zhenya’s face, but then he looks back to Ilya. He tilts his head towards the hall at the back of the bar before moving towards it without a word.

Ilya follows. Of course he does. If Holtby wants to chat, though, his phone better be charged, because Ilya’s certainly isn’t, and their good friend Google Translate is probably going to get a workout.

Ilya follows him down the hall and right out the door at the back. If Ilya was leading he probably would have let it close behind them and locked them out by the dumpsters in the chilly New Jersey night, but Holtby knocks a piece of wood between the door and the frame as he continues to be infinitely more forward thinking than Ilya. Ilya’s not sure he’s thinking at all right now, to be honest, not after that last round of shots, but as a proud Russian he’ll admit that out loud absolutely never.

They stare at each other for a minute, Ilya trying to figure out what’s about to go down and Holtby, presumedly, trying to figure out Ilya. He tilts his head to the side, big shaggy face below a backwards cap that’s barely holding back the trademark Holtbeast flow, and reminding Ilya of some kind of big, fluffy dog. A Saint Bernard, maybe, but the kind that saves goals instead of frostbitten dummies wandering around the Alps.

Then Holtby’s talking, and Ilya has to concentrate very hard to try and catch what he’s saying.

“-look-” _something, something,_ “lost, kid.”

Ilya scowls, because he’s not a kid. He doesn’t respond, though, because he’s having trouble finding any English words at all right now.

Holtby rolls his eyes. “Not chirping you,” he insists, which Ilya does catch because he at least knows all of those words, before pulling out his phone and typing something in.

He holds it up for Ilya to see.

_Why do you look like we just lost?_

Ilya shakes his head and looks at the ground. Then it all just kind of… comes pouring out.

“Should have been your game,” he says, in Russian, of course, and so Braden understands even less than Ilya had. “You’re mad and you should be because it should have been your game, and they keep talking about your contract and I feel like that’s _my_ fault, even though that’s stupid because I know it’s not, and-”

Braden taps him none-too-gently on the forehead with his phone before he shoves it in Ilya’s hand. Here Ilya is pouring his heart out and Holtby has the audacity to look amused. Ilya’s scowl deepens, but he takes the phone and starts typing. He hopes Google is as good as they claim. It feels like he types for an hour, though it’s probably more like half a minute.

When Holts gets his phone back, he squints at it for longer than it should take to read a single paragraph; clearly something got a little scrambled. Then he looks back up at Ilya, who is shrinking back towards the wall and trying to make himself as small as possible, which is unfortunately not nearly small enough, seeing as how he actually has an inch on Holts.

Braden Holtby, of course, has none of the same reservations as his rookie backup and he just follows, crowding Ilya further into the wall, shaking his head and looking- looking _fond_. He shoves the phone back in his pocket and raps his knuckles against Ilya’s head this time, much gentler.

“Stupid,” he says, which makes Ilya’s brow furrow and his chin drop to his chest before Braden knocks it back up with that same hand, so they’re forced to look each other in the eyes.

“You did good,” Braden says, slowly – slower than he needs to, actually, but Ilya still doesn’t have the English right now to call him on it. “I’m _proud_ of you. I like watching you play.”

At least, Ilya’s pretty sure that’s what he said, and he shivers a little, even though Braden’s big, wide shoulders are blocking out the wind and his breath is whiskey warm on Ilya’s face.

Braden Holtby likes watching _him_ play. That’s a new one. He wants to believe it, but he also doesn’t really trust his translation skills at the moment. He wonders if it would be too forward to reach into Holts’ pocket and pull the phone back out.

Braden doesn’t seem to have any problem with being forward, though, because a split-second later Ilya is shivering for an entirely different reason. Shivering and gasping a little, right against Braden’s mouth, because holy hell, Holts is _kissing_ him. Holtby is kissing _him._

What feels like a thousand different thoughts streak through his mind in an instant, clattering against each other like billiard balls – _we can’t – I don’t – this isn’t – I’m _Russian_ and I shouldn’t – if Holtby’s caught the locker room looks then everyone else must-_

But the gasp parts his lips enough for Braden to tug with his teeth, suck his bottom lip in and then slip his tongue inside against Ilya’s and all those thoughts evaporate as quick as they came. Braden is subtle, and he knows how to stay quiet and keep things close to his chest, and it’s just so _good._ It’s exactly what he’d wanted that very first win, when Braden’s eyes had been all crinkled up and happy and proud looking. What he’d wanted to think about but hadn’t let himself until much later in the privacy of his own bed.

Then Holts is pulling back. Holts is the one looking awkward and nervous, like he’s done something wrong, though the hands that have migrated up to thread through Ilya’s hair don’t leave and he doesn’t back up or pull the rest of his body away. Ilya doesn’t like that look on Braden anymore than he’d liked feeling it on himself. He most certainly doesn’t have the words for any of _that_, so he just does what he does every practice, and follows Holtby’s lead.

His own hands come up, one to fist in the front of Braden’s shirt and the other knocking the hat off Braden’s head so he can grab hold of his hair. There’s a lot to grab hold of. He kind of likes it – kind of like a girl, but kind of not all like a girl, either. He tries to pull Braden back towards his mouth, but Braden’s like a brick wall and he ends up more pulling himself in, but same difference. Doesn’t matter. They’re kissing again, and that’s what’s important.

Braden groans against his mouth, and all bets are off. Ilya’s never kissed another guy before, but when he’d thought about it, it had always been a soft, tentative sort of day-dream kiss, like kissing any of his past girlfriends just maybe a little more stubble. There’s no stubble against his face now, of course, because Braden’s beard is as full as it ever is, and it’s definitely softer than Ilya might have imagined, but the kiss is anything but.

The alcohol has loosened them both up considerably, but it’s also loosened Ilya’s inhibitions, and he drags his tongue across Braden’s mouth, nips and nibbles and dives the fuck in. Braden lets him, gives back just as good. It’s below freezing out, but Ilya’s so hot right now he’s going to combust if he doesn’t- oh, _fuck_.

That’s Braden’s hand. It’s left Ilya’s hair and it’s right there at his fly, and then, with more coordination than Ilya thinks he’d personally be able to manage sober, that hand has got his pants down to his thighs and Ilya’s cock jerks at the chill before it’s encompassed in Braden’s big palm, the curl of his fist – _so fucking big, how is it bigger than Ilya’s; Ilya is _taller_ damnit._

It doesn’t last long. Of course it doesn’t. He’s twenty-two, and he’s drunk and horny and he’s being jerked off in a dirty alley by _Braden Holtby_.

His hips jerk forward. Each breath is coming hard and shaky right into Braden’s mouth. He tries to keep quiet, but it’s too good, too unexpected. When he moans, right against Braden’s lips, he feels more than hears Braden’s answering moan, and it sends him right over the edge, pulsing into Braden’s fist, against Braden’s shirt, dripping right down to the front of his own open pants where his hips are spread as wide as the restriction will allow him.

He’s shivering for real now, both from the cold and the orgasm as Holts tugs his jeans back into position and wipes off his hand on his own shirt and not Ilya’s, because Braden Holtby is nothing if not a gentleman.

He says something to Ilya, but Ilya is now both drunk and come-dumb and also trying to figure out how to return the favor, so he doesn’t catch most of it.

“I’m—out—tab.”

Ilya just kind of looks at him, and he thinks he probably looks exactly as stupid right now as he feels. Braden doesn’t make fun of him, though, or get mad that Ilya’s hand isn’t down Braden’s pants or anything. He just chuckles and pulls the phone back out.

_Come home with me, _Ilya reads.

He figures the loopy grin that spreads across his face as he hands the phone back is probably answer enough.


End file.
